In The After: A Tale of Two Frenemies
by Crystal Allen
Summary: The story of a clever crow and a soulless spirit. Ciel finds that life can, in fact, go on without him. That doesn't mean he intends to let it.
1. The Funeral and The Awakening

Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji, nor do I own the little bit of Greek mythology I borrowed for this chapter.

** Chapter One:**

** The Funeral and the Awakening**

**

* * *

**

_**This Is Just To Say**_

_I have eaten_

_The plums_

_That were in_

_The icebox_

_And which_

_You were probably_

_Saving _

_For breakfast_

_Forgive me_

_They were delicious_

_So sweet_

_And so cold_

~William Carlos Williams

* * *

Apologetic, but polite.

Yes, that was it.

Sebastian had looked politely apologetic right before he ripped Ciel's soul from his body. He was a butler, after all, and it was his nature to be courteous.

And it really did rip, with an awful, scratchy, unnatural tearing sound that would have made Ciel flinch had he not already been dead. Actually, he felt the tearing noise rather that heard it, since he abruptly found himself without the physical ability to hear anything.

And the tearing noise _hurt._ Quite a lot.

He had known that it would hurt. He had had something of a morbid curiosity as to how much it would hurt, so the moments leading up to his death had seen him gracefully calm in a resigned sort of way. It was a bit like going to the dentist to have a tooth pulled; it was just something that needed to be done. Yes, it would hurt, but since there was nothing he could do about it, there was no point in panicking and making a fool of himself. So he just sat back and waited for it to happen.

That wasn't to say that he hadn't been a little bit frightened, and more than a little bit sad.

But he had told Sebastian to make it hurt, and Sebastian was always efficient. After all, this was the demon who had repaired his broken ring so that it was better than new; who always made his favorite tea exactly the way he liked it, who had helped Ciel manage his taxes when the numbers confused him, who had looked upon him with something akin to pride when he had played Hamlet, who had managed to dress him in his neat black suit and tie his black tie with one hand, who was teaching him to play the violin… And what kind of a butler would that have made him if he couldn't even cause pain when he was ordered to?

Sebastian had leaned in, and reached _in_ and _pulled_, and

_**Riiiip.**_

Politely.

So Ciel had first been calm, a credit to his nature and his class.

Then, his very soul had writhed and warped and his spirit burned and screamed and twisted as he had been torn to shreds in an agonizing, searing tumult of excruciatingly horrible pain. He would have blacked out from the pain, but he already was, in every sense of the word, _out._ And now…

Now it was dark. It was also probably very cold, but Ciel couldn't tell for sure. He couldn't see anything, hear anything, or feel anything. He simply _wasn't_, anymore.

It was peaceful. It was still. It was dark. It was very, very boring.

Apparently, Ciel was realizing, there was not much for one to do when one had ceased to exist. He began to lose track of time. Had it been a minute, or two hundred years? He counted out sixty seconds just to make sure that a minute was still a minute. But what if a second wasn't actually a second? It was rather hard to concentrate on anything with all the dark. What if, after a while, he lost the ability to focus on anything and forgot everything about his entire life? What if he forgot everyone? Would he forget the color of Lizzie's eyes; the sound of her voice when she called his name? What if he forgot who he was, why he had died, and how? Was this how his eternity would be spent; forgetting things?

Now Ciel was very bored and deeply depressed. He began to think that even Hell would have been a better option; at least he might have had the chance of some company in Hell. But he was alone. He would stay like that for a while yet. The prospect of his blank eternity was nearly enough to cause Ciel to start _praying_. Nearly. But it had only been a little while, and Ciel was not quite _that_ desperate. All the same… he was lonely. He supposed he had better start getting used to it. The darkness certainly didn't help matters.

Time passed.

* * *

More time passed.

* * *

And some more.

* * *

Ciel was still depressed and lonesome, more so than ever before. But more than those things… He. Was. So. BORED. Good _lord,_ purgatory was dull. He couldn't even focus on how increasingly frightened he was becoming. If only he could sleep to kill some time – but that wasn't how death worked. Ciel longed ardently for the sound of a human voice. Or even an inhuman voice. Would he forget the sound of voices? Was he never to hear another sound again?

So many questions and no one to answer them. Ciel thought hard and desperately to try and recall the sound of his own voice. What did it sound like, again? Oh, yes.

_I am Earl Ciel Phantomhive_, he thought experimentally. And then a very real chuckle gave his consciousness a jolt.

"Good evening, young Earl," said the Undertaker.

* * *

Sebastian was astounded.

He was furious with shock and disbelief. He could hear his heart thudding in his ears. How could this be happening? It was unheard of – it was completely impossible. He refused to believe it… but it was true.

Grell Sutcliff, perched on a broken pillar above him, bared his pointed teeth in a sympathetically gleeful grin.

"Wow," he crooned, "that kid must have had one hell of a soul if it was able to give you a hangover like _that_."

Sebastian would have at least glared at him, but he was too busy making sure that his brain wasn't seeping out of his ears.

The red Reaper giggled, the shrill sound of it cutting straight into Sebastian's pounding head.

"You probably should have expected this, you know," Grell scolded lightly, finger-combing his long crimson hair over one shoulder. "He was such a stubborn little brat. Souls like that are worth it, I suppose, but they never go down easy. And I'll bet you ate too fast. That's what you get when you hold off for too long, you know. Poor thing, starving yourself like that! Now, drinking blood, on the other hand, will never give you a hangover… well, unless you let it sit too long and it clots, then it develops this flaky texture, which _I_ think…"

He kept on talking, but Sebastian tuned out his magnified voice as best he could. The thought of ingesting anything else was making him ill.

Yes – though it was preposterous; ridiculous, unprecedented – Ciel's soul had given Sebastian a hangover. And a doozey of a hangover, at that.

Sebastian sat on the stone bench next to Ciel's lifeless body. The sun had risen, and seemed to be purposely directing its light straight into his eyes. There was absolute silence all around him, and everything was peaceful. Or it had been until Grell showed up and started chattering.

Sebastian was bent forward, his elbows resting on his knees – both elbows, as he had wasted no time in regenerating his arm with the rush of power he had absorbed from his recent meal. At the moment, he was resisting the urge to clutch his head in his hands; as such an action would be undignified. As it was, he had taken off his black jacket – it lay on the arm of the bench – loosened his collar and undone his tie.

Grell eyed him with appreciative interest. He was such a graceful figure, arched over as he was, in only his clean white shirt and trim black vest. And how appealing was the slip of his pale throat revealed by an open collar…

Grell hopped daintily down to land on his toes before the demon.

"Oh, poor Sebastian," he crooned, his voice filled with adoring concern, "You must be in such pain. Shall I kiss it better?" He leaned in hopefully.

Sebastian did not bother to raise his aching head. As soon as Grell drew close enough, Sebastian snatched the Reaper by the throat with one hand and flung him away to the side.

"No," he said.

Grell fell hard in an ungainly heap some distance away, but he was up in a minute, wheezing with indignation and in a full out huff. How dare Sebastian kill his reaping buzz?! He had been having such a good day!

"Honestly!" he pouted, marching up to the bench. "I think only of your well-being and this is the thanks I get?"

To Sebastian's very great annoyance, Grell's chainsaw roared to life, the sound magnified a hundred times in Sebastian's ears. But the chainsaw was not meant for him.

"You never threw _him_ around so carelessly!" hissed Grell, and with a flourish, made to bring his weapon down upon Ciel's corpse.

Faster than before, Sebastian reached up suddenly and grabbed the live chainsaw in both hands. That was how much power a soul could give him; the blades did not so much as break his skin. Oh yes, Ciel had definitely been worth the hangover. Grell suddenly found himself staring directly into the demon's livid eyes, eyes that were still glowing magenta with soulful energy.

"You'll not touch him," said Sebastian calmly, and he twisted the Reaper's chainsaw in his hands the way one would wring a washcloth; it spluttered and died instantly as Grell's mouth dropped open in horror.

"There is no cinematic record for you to watch," Sebastian continued, "and no soul to judge, so I don't believe you have any more business here." Even through his headache, Sebastian managed to favor Grell with his company smile. "And it would behoove you not to disrespect the dead," he said.

Grell stood and gaped at his broken scythe, and Sebastian could have sworn that he was about to start yelling, but he didn't. He did something louder. He burst into pathetic tears.

Sebastian sat back down on the bench, and – it just couldn't be helped – he put his pounding head in his hands. He sighed inwardly as Grell sobbed in front of him, and glanced to his left, where Ciel's body was draped lightly upright, his head tilted to the side as though he were sleeping. He was obligingly silent in death.

Sebastian studied the boy's face, committing it to memory, until Grell saw fit to let his destroyed piece of weaponry crash to the ground at his feet, at which point Sebastian went rather overboard in the process of restoring the quiet.

* * *

When news of Ciel Phantomhive's death reached the Middleford estate, the Marquis and Marchioness Middleford were reluctant to break it to their young daughter. They hesitated, fearing for her sensitive nature, and did not tell her on the day it happened. When she inquired that night at supper why they both looked so glum, they had her handmaiden Paula take her upstairs. That was their preferred method of getting her out of the way.

"We'll tell her tomorrow," they said.

This turned out to be untrue, however, as the next morning, Elizabeth took up the newspaper to bring to her father at the breakfast table, as she did every morning. Glaring at her from the front page in bold black letters were the words **"YOUNG PHANTOMHIVE HEIR PERISHES TRAGICALLY IN ALL-CONSUMING INFERNO"** and the paper went on to say what a decadent life he had lead, and what a pity his poor young life had been cut short so painfully.

The Middlefords watched as their vivacious little daughter turned ghastly pale. She turned so white and stood so still and frozen that her parents grew frightened.

"Elizabeth," began her mother.

"Darling - " cried her father.

Elizabeth only looked blankly up at them with a queer expression in her eyes. The paper slipped from her numb fingers and fell to the floor. Her lips parted as she took a shallow breath. Her parents waited for the tears to overflow, but they never did.

"What's the matter with her?" Marquis Middleford gasped in a stage whisper, grasping his tie nervously, "Why doesn't she move, why doesn't she cry?"

"She's going to faint!" cried Paula, whose own eyes brimmed with tears. She placed gentle hands on her young mistress' shoulders to steady her, but Elizabeth did not need steadying.

Slowly, she moved away from Paula, her face expressionless, passed her parents, climbed the main staircase, crossed the hallway, went into her room and shut the door softly behind her.

She did not emerge for the rest of the day, even for meals, nor did the door open the next morning.

"My Lady, you must eat something!" Paula implored, holding a food-laden tray and still sniffling for the sake of poor grieving Elizabeth and her poor dead fiancé. Elizabeth did not make a sound or open the door even a crack.

Marquis and Frances Middleford grew worried as another day passed.

"Elizabeth," her mother knocked quietly on her door the next morning. "The funeral is in a few hours. You must eat something before we go."

"Oh, she won't come out!" fretted Paula, quite forgetting her place in her anxiety. Frances, ever composed, only sighed impatiently and waved a lacy handkerchief at her husband.

"Dear, you'll have to break down the door. Imagine the talk if Elizabeth isn't present at her own fiancé's funeral."

But breaking down the door was not necessary. The door swung open and out came Elizabeth, neatly and prettily arrayed in black. Her blonde curls fell messily and wildly around her face, but if she had been crying, no one was able to tell. Her eyes were dry and her lips were set, though she seemed too pale and drawn to be natural.

"Paula, will you help me with my hair?" she said.

"Of course, my Lady," said the maid in some surprise, and brought Elizabeth to her mirror, where she proceeded to tame her hair into its usual swirling style.

Frances Middleford surveyed her daughter's attire and gave her an approving nod. This afternoon was the time to keep up appearances. There would be time for grief and sympathy later. She turned, and descended the stairs again.

Marquis Middleford lingered in Elizabeth's doorway a moment longer. The look and the nod he gave her were a little less subtle, and much more kindly than those of his wife. He felt his daughter's loss more keenly than sensible Frances, though Ciel had only been his nephew by marriage. He recalled how happily the two children had played together in years past, and shook his head slowly as he followed after his wife. Such a shame.

Elizabeth, for her part, felt sick. Just _sick_ from her head to her toes. Her hands were like ice and her movements were heavy and labored while her head felt as though it was spinning. Her breath caught and stuck in her throat. Her eyes ached with unshed tears, but she felt too numb to cry. Having joined her parents at the table, Elizabeth could not eat a single bite of the food set before her. She could only sit and stare at it and think, as she had been thinking for the past few days in her room.

She wished that she didn't have to go to the funeral. She felt that she couldn't bear to be around other people. Other people hadn't cared for Ciel the way she had, and they wouldn't understand.

Elizabeth had fallen asleep the previous night with the knowledge that Ciel was dead. She had woken up that morning knowing that Ciel was dead. She would get into the carriage with Paula and her parents knowing that Ciel was dead. Though there would be no body, since no body had been found, Elizabeth would attend Ciel's funeral knowing that Ciel was dead.

He would be dead tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. This time next year, Ciel would still be dead. Elizabeth felt as if… she didn't know quite what. Sorrow like this had never touched her before, not even with the deaths of her uncle and aunts, and she was still adjusting to it. Everything around her seemed dimmer, as if the colors had been toned down. The sunlight seemed flat. Her black silk dress with all its frills seemed ten times darker.

Her parents did not try to force her to eat. They were just relieved that she was out of her room and displaying signs of life. Shortly, their driver pulled the carriage up to the front door with a clatter of hooves. "Elizabeth," called Frances gently, and Elizabeth rose, put on her black gloves, and followed her parents out the door.

* * *

Sebastian did not intend to stay long at Ciel's funeral, as churches made him uncomfortable. It didn't pain him, exactly, to be in a house of God, but given the choice he would much rather remain outside. There was just a certain amount of discomfort involved… the kind of discomfort a human might feel if he were to crawl into a deep, constricting, filthy, muddy hole in the ground that was so tight that he couldn't move and so deep that he couldn't see the sun, and horrible itchy bugs were creeping all over him. That kind of discomfort.

But how could he count himself a decent butler if he couldn't even attend his former master's funeral?

Sebastian was swathed from head to foot in his usual garb of black, but the material was much finer and the lines and cut of the clothing much more refined than what he usually wore. No one who did not know him to be a butler would have suspected that he was one. Only the best for the Young Master's funeral. He entered the church and sat directly in the last pew on the left of the aisle. There was no harm in being close to the doors.

Thus situated, he casually surveyed the turnout. It was large, as he had known it would be. Ciel's corporation stretched far and wide, after all, and employed many, many people, most of whom had attended; the majority of these with their wives and children in tow. Sebastian recalled that the Young Master had characteristically taken steps to ensure that the faithful workers of his company should not be stranded without jobs in the event of his untimely (impending) death. A fact which most of the people present at his funeral would, in all likelihood, remain ignorant of.

Glancing ahead and over to the right, Sebastian could clearly see the Middlefords seated almost at the very front of the church. Elizabeth's blonde head was bowed. Having had his fill of observation, Sebastian began to listen.

"A pity that no body could be found," remarked a wife to her husband, "He really was such a beautiful boy, in spite of the eye patch." Her husband, whom Sebastian recognized as one of Ciel's former business associates, shook his head.

"No," he said, "Probably the body wouldn't have been in any fit shape for an open casket. Very messy way to go."

Sebastian's lips twitched upwards in just the slightest hint of a smile. They could look for the body… or rather, the remains… all they liked. They would find none. Sebastian always cleaned up after himself. Upon taking his leave of the ruins as his headache died down to a manageable throbbing, he had placed his black-gloved fingers lightly on the boy's shoulder and watched the body fade away as though it had vanished. The corpse was now sleeping peacefully in its own grave… along with all of Sebastian's other human masters. All of them had died in the ruins, and all of them would repose forever in the ruins, until – well – close enough to forever to satisfy Sebastian, anyway.

"How haunting – dying the same way as his parents, only three years later. Like a curse!" said someone else in a chilling tone, effectively spooking those around him.

"The young Miss Middleford doesn't seem to be taking it very hard," whispered one of the many strangers at Ciel's funeral to another, observing Elizabeth's apparent composure. "Not even a single tear for the boy she would have married. I don't believe it's quite proper not to cry at a funeral."

"Ah, youth." Someone responded, falling back on a cliché.

Sebastian reflected silently that he, too, as well as the Young Master, had expected Elizabeth to cry. But no matter. Grief had odd effects on humans, even those as typically predictable as Elizabeth.

As a matter of fact, Elizabeth did not shed a tear until the eulogy was drawing to a close. Her face had been blank as the minister droned, and she stood and sat mechanically when standing and sitting was required. She did not cry until she chanced to look behind her, and saw Sebastian on the opposite side of the church, far in the back, nearly hidden by the rows of people in front of him. He was framed by a brilliant red stained-glass window depicting a saint.

Sebastian sensed her green gaze as it lighted on him and gave a small, solemn nod in her direction, quickly lowering his eyes from hers in a show of sorrow.

The sight of the butler standing there alone, without his young master beside him, drove home the awful truth to Elizabeth with a jarring impact. She felt the reality of Ciel's death strike her, and the numb feeling vanished, leaving a raw, open wound in its place. She began to cry. She could not help but cry.

Hushed whispers of sympathy spread around the hall as onlookers began to notice the silent tears staining her face. How sweet and how sad, thought the crowd as a whole.

Elizabeth was not listening to them, nor was she listening to the minister. She could not get over how wrong it seemed that Ciel and Sebastian should be separated. She could see Ciel so clearly; blue-eyed, melancholy and proud, with Sebastian standing always just behind him, a dark but benevolent guardian. He hovered at Ciel's shoulder with an air of thinly veiled possessiveness.

Elizabeth had always found it comforting, how close the two of them were. Since Ciel would no longer let her so close, at least he had trustworthy Sebastian by his side in the meantime. Now, having seen Sebastian standing alone, she realized fully that Ciel was gone.

She looked for Sebastian when the funeral was over, hoping to speak with him, but he was nowhere to be found.

* * *

Sebastian couldn't have described the taste of Ciel Phantomhive's soul, because soul tastes like soul and there is nothing that could possibly compare. Suffice to say that it was very much worth Sebastian's while, and then some. But now that it was gone, he did not intend to wait nearly so long before obtaining another.

He had slipped quietly out of the church doors and into the London air when everyone's attention had been otherwise occupied. He gave a very audible sigh of relief, thankful that no one was around to hear it, recovered himself, and walked steadily away from Ciel's funeral with familiar purpose sparking in his mind. The Undertaker, lurking near, had given him a drearily cheerful wave and a grin, but Sebastian had not stopped to acknowledge him.

Ciel Phantomhive was dead, and the time had come for Sebastian to start something new. Demons, as a whole, were not given to mourning.

If anyone had been around just then, they would have seen a slim young man of about twenty, sharply dressed, with a lilt in his gait and a gleam in his ruddy eyes. His smooth dark hair was a bit strange for the times, but he was so handsome that no one would think to care. He did not look like someone who had just attended a funeral, nor did he look like he had very recently throttled a grim reaper, nor was there any evidence in his attitude or countenance that suggested that he had just eaten the soul of a young aristocrat.

Keeping a casually brisk pace, Sebastian wound his way through the twisting London streets, taking a sharp left at this alley; turning abruptly right at the next corner. He kept on this way for hours. He nodded to those he happened to pass, but he never spoke and he never slowed down or sped up. The sun was beginning to set and Sebastian felt the lure of nighttime and darkness begin to stir in his veins.

He heard a crow cawing somewhere out of sight, and, smiling to himself, followed his finely tuned instincts into the lengthening shadows.

* * *

Jeremiah Reed was eighteen years old but looked older. He had always looked old for his age.

He had lank, unwashed brown hair that could have used a trim, and a few days' worth of five o' clock shadow. His clothing, though obviously tailored, was unkempt. His waistcoat was stained and one sleeve was badly ripped.

It was obvious to Sebastian that the young man had been drinking, and also that he had recently been in a fight. He was covered in sweat and bruises, and his lower lip was torn and bleeding down his bristled chin. The man's eyes were dull brown and wild.

"-sick of this shit," he was muttering. He seemed rather disoriented. He turned and spat on the ground, then wiped his wet mouth with his sleeve. "…show every goddamn one of `em… think they can… every goddamn…_shit -"_

He crumpled, retched, and was quite sick for the next few minutes.

Sebastian, concealed in shadow, watched him.

At the moment, Jeremiah Reed hated the world and everyone in it. Laboriously, he pulled himself up and tried to avoid staggering into his puddle of vomit. His throat burned and his vision swam, so he couldn't tell if there were three crows sitting on that windowsill, or just one.

He blinked, sniffed, rubbed roughly at his eyes, and looked again. He must have been drunker than he thought, or maybe that hit to the forehead was playing havoc with his eyes in the dark.

There was a man standing in front of that window. There was not a bird in sight.

He opened his mouth, partly in surprise, and partly to ask the man who the hell he was, when the sound of angry voices sounded faintly in alleyways that couldn't be too far from where Jeremiah Reed stood, suddenly petrified. A chill ran up his spine, and he almost bolted.

But then the man in black by the window said "Hello," and Jeremiah Reed stayed right where he was.

* * *

"Good evening, young Earl," said the Undertaker, becoming clearer as the dark mist sank away from Ciel's vision. The Undertaker was coming towards him from a large and decrepit stone archway, which Ciel recognized. He was still sitting on that stone bench – that is, he thought he was sitting. He couldn't be entirely sure.

Hearing, vision, feeling… the most appropriate next attempt would be speech. Ciel summoned his voice from wherever it had fled.

It took some effort, and it was very faint.

_"Wha…I…" _he drew a breath. _"How…wh…time?" _he breathed out.

The Undertaker smiled patiently, trying to hold back his obvious amusement.

"It has been three months since you died," he said.

_Three months?_ thought Ciel. That was all? It had seemed ever so much longer. He grasped at his elusive voice again. It sounded so whispery and strange in the silence and gloom of the ruins.

_"Am I… am I myself?" _

"Of course you are yourself, who else would you be?" asked the Undertaker, leaning on his shining scythe.

Ciel blinked, or at least, he thought he blinked. He looked at the tall scythe, and the Undertaker followed his line of vision.

_"But my soul…" _said Ciel, in his echoing voice.

"Is gone, of course," said the Undertaker. "Gone, gone, gone, gone," he sang, swaying from side to side with each word, "and any memory of past lives lived; any knowledge or awareness of Heaven or Hell went with it."

_"How do…?" _Ciel's voice echoed, _"What, what do I look like now?"_

"What do you want to look like?"

Ciel did not have to think.

_"Like myself, _of course," he said, and his voice was suddenly fuller, louder, much more like his own. In a leisurely instant, he felt himself take form. He knew all at once that his hair was again ashen silver-black; he knew that he was still short and slender; he knew that he was dressed in what had been his most comfortable suit of clothing – dark green, like the forest that was pushing its way inside the ruins – and that the Phantomhive ring was still absent from his finger. He stared down at his hands, and lightly touched the vacant place on his thumb.

The blue flower was gone, too.

"That's more like it," said the Undertaker. "You know, most soulless beings have a hard time pulling themselves together, if they manage it at all." He tilted his head to one side, revealing more of his odd scar. "But then, you've always been quick on the uptake, haven't you, young Earl?"

"Soulless being?" asked Ciel, looking up at the Reaper. "What, precisely, does that make me?"

The Undertaker leered at him.

"You are the shadow of your soul," he said. "Just as people become ghosts of their living selves, you are the echo of your soul."

Ciel stared at him. "My soul is gone," he said.

"Oh yes, it's gone," said the Undertaker, "But of course, it isn't actually gone."

"…what?" said Ciel.

"It's your _immortal_ soul," the Reaper said. "It won't ever be _gone_… you just don't belong to it anymore."

Ciel shook his head slowly. It felt odd having a body again after three months of not existing. "I don't understand," he said.

"I know," replied the Undertaker. "I didn't expect you to. I've never been good at explaining these types of things."

Ciel's eyes travelled his surroundings. It was nice to have both eyes again. He settled them both back on the Undertaker, who seemed to be waiting for something.

"Why are you here?" asked Ciel. The Undertaker's grin grew, if possible, wider.

"That isn't the question at all," he said, and paused for effect. "The question is – why, young Earl, are _you_ here?"

"How should I know that?" asked Ciel, sounding even more like himself.

"You wouldn't know," said the Undertaker, leaning even more precariously on his scythe, "But I do."

There was another drawn pause, in which Ciel eventually realized that he was expected to ask 'the question'.

"Why am I here?" he asked, marveling at how much the Undertaker had irritated him in just a few minutes of being in his company.

"Because you want to be here," the Undertaker said.

Ciel's eyes narrowed. _He _could have told him _that._ He was getting mad, and as soon as his voice came entirely back, he was going to yell the Undertaker's ears off for speaking in pointless circles. But then he realized that the Undertaker wasn't finished.

"And," the Undertaker continued, "because you have been conjured."

Ciel's eyes grew wide.

"Plenty of things have happened in the three months since your death. Circumstances have… changed."

And that was apparently all that the Undertaker had to say on the subject.

While Ciel was attempting to absorb this, the Undertaker picked up one glossy black feather from the ground and rubbed it against his cheek. He laughed then, and let it float to the ground.

"Silly bird – trying to be dignified when all the while he's molting all over the place."

This was such an odd way to refer to Sebastian that Ciel nearly felt his lips twitching upwards. He looked at the ground. There were, indeed, lots of black feathers scattered on the dusty stone. There was also a black butler's jacket lying on the arm of the bench, obviously disregarded. Ciel felt just the tiniest bit offended when he noticed it. Apparently Sebastian had just eaten his payment and sped on his way. He must have had other places to be. Ciel didn't know why he felt mildly insulted by this, but he did.

He didn't care to look at the jacket and the feathers anymore, so he stood up, a bit hesitantly, and walked towards the dark stone archway. The Undertaker stopped playing with feathers and joined him.

Outside the archway was… water. A vast amount of water. And a little way off, rowing steadily towards them, was a boatman, steering his boat. It was a very small boat, but it was big enough for Ciel to sit in. The mists parted around the boatman as he drew nearer, and he seemed very, very tall. This time, the Undertaker did not make Ciel ask.

"That is Charon, the ferryman," he said. "For a price, he will take you across the River Styx."

"For a price?" asked Ciel, turning to the Reaper. "I have nothing to give. Not even a soul, this time."

"I'm sure you'll think of something," grinned the Undertaker, and Ciel couldn't be sure, but he thought that the Reaper might have winked at him.

"That's silly," said Ciel. "Why can't you just take me back?"

The Undertaker, predictably, laughed at him. "That isn't how it works!" he chuckled, patting Ciel on the head. "I remove souls from the mortal world. I don't bring them back to it! You always had a droll sense of humor, young Earl."

Ciel sighed and brought his fingers to the bridge if his nose in a calmingly familiar mannerism. He turned to ask the Undertaker something else, but there was suddenly no one there. The Undertaker had gone. Ciel turned back, and the ferryman stood before him. Slowly, he extended his hand toward Ciel; an inhumanly large and skeletal hand with long, long fingers.

Charon's two empty sockets stared down at Ciel from beneath his shadowy cloak, which hung off him in tatters. "Coins are traditional," suggested the ferryman.

Ciel stood on the bank of the River Styx, looked at the expectantly outstretched hand, and did not know what to do.

* * *

**A/N:** I know that in a while the second season of Kuroshitsuji will be out, making this fic pretty much obsolete. But I wanted to write it anyway. It's probably going to be pretty long… and I tend to be a slow writer, which means that I will also be a slow updater. But if you like it so far, please review!! I need feedback like Ciel needs sock-garters!


	2. Of Bribes and Transparency

Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji, nor do I own the movie _Kitty Foyle_, from which I got some useful information.

**Chapter Two:**

**Of Bribes and Transparency**

* * *

"_Ah, well, life goes on," people say when someone dies. But from the point of view of the person who has just died, it doesn't. It's the universe that goes on. Just as the deceased was getting the hang of everything it's all whisked away, by illness or accident or, in one case, a cucumber. Why this has to be is one of the imponderables of life, in the face of which people either start to pray… or become really, really angry._

~ Terry Pratchett, _The Last Hero_

_

* * *

_Ciel Phantomhive looked out across the murky distance of the River Styx that separated him from the mortal world. He knew that somehow he must get across, and that he probably wasn't supposed to be able to. But he wanted badly to get out of this eerily quiet, dark and foggy place that surrounded him with the fact of his own death. There was a hanging lantern on the ferryman's miniature craft, which creaked in a rusty sort of way with every dip and sway of the waves on the sides of the little boat. It lit up the tall, tall, cloaked figure of the boatman that towered over Ciel, waiting for him to act.

Ciel had to crane his neck upwards to look the ferryman in his lack-of-a-face. He was thoroughly tired of being short. What was even more frustrating than his height was that Ciel knew exactly how he would handle this if he were still living.

_"Sebastian," _he would order, with a languid wave of a kid-gloved hand,_ "Take care of it." _And Sebastian would, with an obedient smile, hand the ferryman two gold coins. Ciel would never have been carrying any money.

But of course, that was now out of the question. How inconvenient. Ciel puzzled over this, feeling increasingly at a loss. Charon withdrew his hand, his strangely long fingers curling in like spider legs, and spoke.

"Were not two golden coins placed on your eyes for your journey into the afterlife?" he inquired solemnly, in a surprisingly mild voice. "How did your living companions expect you to cross with no toll for the ferryman?"

"They didn't," replied Ciel crossly, because he felt so little in the giant's shadow. He wished he had his skull-topped cane to make him feel more imposing. "because it wasn't- exactly-" Ciel realized the truth of what he was saying as he said it. "It wasn't my time to make the journey. But I had to fulfill a contract, so… so Sebas - the demon had to row me across the river himself." He thought for a moment. "And besides," he said, "That isn't the way funerals go in England."

"Ah," said Charon, in a soft and fascinated tone. "I knew there was something off about you. No soul. Hm." There was a motion beneath his cloak that Ciel knew must be the ferryman crossing his arms. "Well," he said, "Unless you are in possession of something of value to offer me as payment, you are wasting my time, soulless child. I ferry souls to the afterlife for a price. You are soulless, and your path is out of my way. I will require something of greater value than coins."

Ciel, being the head of the Phantomhive multinational corporation that he was, knew perfectly well that he was being hustled. Unfortunately, he was also, in fact, soulless and alone, which left him rather vulnerable to unadvisable business transactions. But how in the world was he ever going to make it across the river? He had nothing to –

"Oh -" said Ciel as the answer occurred to him. "Wait just a moment!" He turned and ran back into the stony silence of the ruins, glimpsed his ticket back to London, snatched it up and carried it back to where the ferryman waited on the other side of the archway.

Charon tilted his head in surprise at the boy's ingenuity.

Ciel lifted up the dark, satiny jacket that Sebastian had left behind on the bench, offering it to the ferryman.

"Your cloak and hood are worn to shreds," observed Ciel, managing somehow to look patronizingly down his nose at the tall, tall figure. "If I may speak plainly, you look shabby. Shabbiness is not a favorable impression for the boatman of the River Styx to make. Don't you agree? This will serve you better. I promise you, this is worth more than a few shillings. I presume it will do?"

Charon's empty sockets observed Ciel appraisingly from their tilted vantage point. His long, spindly fingers reached out and took the jacket, then slid over the smooth, soft material. The lacquered buttons and Phantomhive crest shone appealingly.

"It will do," he said, and Ciel, very pleased with himself indeed, stepped into Charon's boat and sat down, looking out at the water.

_Do I know how to make a trade, or do I not? _thought Ciel with significant pride. Charon folded the black jacket neatly and carefully, and set it beside him on the boat. Then he straightened, took up his long pole, and pushed away from the bank where the ruins stood in their heavy silence. Ciel looked back at them, but they quickly vanished into the fog.

Ciel felt uneasy as he looked down over the edge of the boat. He could not see his reflection in the water. He felt that the black depths of the River Styx ran impossibly and unfathomably deep, and that the still, dead things that resided far, far beneath the surface were not pleased at his crossing. But the boatman pushed on, and the little boat moved swiftly and silently, except for the creaking sway of the flickering lantern that cast odd shadows on the waves and made the darkness mobile; first it shrank away from the boat, then it appeared again, lapping at the edges.

The boat glided more quickly still.

It only took a little while for Ciel to figure out that something was very, very wrong.

* * *

Elizabeth Middleford, ever since she entered into society's circles at thirteen, was widely becoming known as an epitome of good breeding. She possessed her father's warmth and social grace and her mother's poise and determination, as well as a few endearing qualities that were entirely her own.

She was ladylike and very sociable, and was generally approved of wherever she went. Her laughter was charmingly honest and she was filled with an infectious enthusiasm for life. She made friends effortlessly. She liked people, and people usually liked her.

So she couldn't figure out why she felt an instant antagonism towards one Jeremiah Reed from the moment he stepped into the room.

He was tall and not unattractive, with brown eyes and hair and a burgundy waistcoat, but his smile was too slick and his manners seemed forced and sarcastic. On Ciel, this had been charming rather than otherwise. Ciel had worn his manners the way he wore his clothes; no matter how fine they were, they were only there to cover what shouldn't be shown. It had been natural on Ciel. But on Mr. Reed, common courtesy seemed oddly ill-fitting.

He was there to speak with her parents, and Elizabeth was not paying much attention to what was being said, opting instead to watch the critical narrowing of her mother's eyes, and the way her father was leaned slightly forward in his chair, displaying his interest in the conversation. She did catch a few pieces of information, though.

She caught that Mr. Reed had been away at school in America, but had suddenly decided to return due to… certain circumstances that he was sure he didn't want to bore her parents with. And also the fact that yes, the Marchioness was correct, his parents _had_ disowned him, and of course their sudden deaths had come as a _great_ and _tragic_ shock to him; no shock being greater, though, than the fact that they had left their entire fortune, their estate, their business, and everything they owned to their estranged son. And yes, his poor parents' deaths had been rather gruesome, hadn't they? And wasn't it _heartbreaking_? And Mr. Reed was _so _looking forward to doing business with Marquis Middleford, who had been a trusted friend and advisor to his father for so long. And…

And Mr. Reed kept _looking_ at her.

They were nothing more than occasional glances, but Elizabeth could feel the weight of them. She met his glance once by accident and looked away quickly, feeling uncomfortable. Why weren't her parents noticing that there was something in those glances that wasn't quite right?

The Middlefords and Mr. Reed were seated in the north parlor, the one done in lavender with the big bay window. Elizabeth's attention soon wandered out this window, where birds chirped and jumped and flew with no perceptible pattern. It was a pretty, sunlit picture. She stared through the glass at the sunlight and the birds and thought about the Phantomhive mansion burning to the ground with Ciel trapped inside it.

Elizabeth's thoughts had been taking an uncharacteristically morbid turn as of late. To her maid and her parents, it was beginning to seem like a very long time since Elizabeth had been fully herself.

Perhaps because the Phantomhive mansion was so prevalent in her mind just then, Elizabeth tuned in abruptly to what Mr. Reed was telling her parents.

"- and I believe you were connected with that family, yes?" said Mr. Reed.

"Yes," confirmed Elizabeth's mother, setting down her teacup and saucer. "Ciel was the son of my late brother, as well as my Elizabeth's fiancé, and his death came as a blow to all of us." Her tone was clipped and soft; a hint that she did not wish to remain on the subject. Mr. Reed did not get the message.

"Ah," he said, with another surreptitious glance in Elizabeth's direction, "then you may be interested in the information I've found through my numerous connections in Scotland Yard." His voice had an odd American twang to it, which twisted his British accent strangely as he boasted. "You see," he continued, and paused for effect, leaning forward like he was revealing the ending of a mystery novel. "We've found the murderers responsible."

Elizabeth gasped quite audibly, in spite of herself. Her parents, in the same state of shock, did not notice. Reed, reveling in the reaction of his audience, nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, indeed!" he said, oblivious to the fact that this was not a moment where enthusiasm and theatrics were appreciated in the least. "It was those three treacherous Phantomhive servants – what were their names…?"

"Maylene, Bardroy, and Finnian," murmured Elizabeth, wide eyed with disbelief. "I knew them," she said. "They couldn't… they wouldn't ever have - "

"Oh, but they did!" interrupted Mr. Reed, taking this opportunity to stare at Elizabeth openly and intensely. "All the evidence proves it." He glanced at her parents then, and seemed to re-think his reaction. He cleared his throat and affected a sober expression. "Tragic, of course. Very sad."

"All three of them adored Ciel," said Elizabeth, more softly still. "I don't believe you."

Reed let out a bark of laughter.

"Elizabeth," her mother hushed her warningly. "Manners." Elizabeth hushed, having been traditionally raised to be seen and not heard. But she was listening carefully now, and her mind was racing. It couldn't be true – it couldn't be.

But according to the information Reed was reeling off to her parents… it was. Kindly, bumbling Maylene, cheerful, deep-voiced Bard and sweet, optimistic Finny had all been in prison for the past few weeks and would remain there as convicted criminals until another culprit was found. And there was no sign of such a thing happening any time soon.

Elizabeth wanted to rush from the room and burst into tears, but of course, she couldn't just then. Manners dictated. So she sat and stared at her shaking hands and tried to swallow the lump in her throat and wished ardently that Jeremiah Reed had never set foot in her home.

* * *

About a month after this unpleasant social call, the Middelfords found themselves cordially invited to the home of the distinguished Mr. Jeremiah Reed, Esq., for tea and business. No one was less thrilled by this than Elizabeth, who, though she was still in mourning and not quite herself, could think of about a million things she would rather be doing, but the invitation had been for all three of them, which was odd but unavoidable.

Elizabeth had prepared herself for a tediously dull time of it, but she had not at all prepared herself for a great and sudden shock, which turned out to be what was waiting for her at the Reed estate instead.

She was helped out of the carriage by the footman and she followed a step behind her parents up to the grand front door. Her mother rang the bell. Her father adjusted his cuff links. Elizabeth tugged lightly at her gloves. The door swung promptly open.

And there stood Sebastian.

"Marquis," he greeted, "Marchioness. Miss Elizabeth." He smiled pleasantly as he ushered them in, took their coats and The Marquis' hat. "The master will receive you in the round parlor. Allow me to escort you." And with that he turned, and proceeded to do so.

Elizabeth glanced desperately at her mother, who must, she was certain, have been at least as staggered as she was. But Frances seemed as collected as ever. "Thank you, Sebastian," she said. And that was that. Elizabeth realized eventually that she was practically gaping at him, and quickly closed her mouth, clutching her handbag frenziedly. There he was, Sebastian himself, all in gleaming black and as cordial as if he hadn't just had to deal with Ciel's horribly gruesome death and a sudden career change.

She must do something – but what? Smile at him? Catch his eye? This was the home of a practical stranger, so she couldn't very well address the help. But then her mother spoke, her voice level and casual.

"You certainly get around, don't you, Sebastian?" she said. "And you're just as indecent as ever, I see." She eyed his long black locks with a look on her face that was almost reminiscent.

Sebastian smiled his old, achingly familiar smile. "Just so, Marchioness," he consented. Then he bowed them through the door of the round parlor, where Mr. Reed was seated and waiting for them. Elizabeth looked up into Sebastian's face as she passed him, but he did not meet her eyes. He bowed once more, and closed the door behind himself as he withdrew.

* * *

It only took a little while for Ciel to figure out that something was very, very wrong. He knew that there was something wrong because the moon was laughing at him.

The fog drifted away above him for a fraction of a moment, and there, glowing brilliantly white against the darkness of the sky was a cheshire cat sliver of moon, mocking him with a grin so malicious that Ciel could almost feel the snicker vibrating through the night.

He had been relaxing in the back of the little boat, but now he sat up very straight.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked, his voice sharp with suspicion and blunt with dread.

"Across the river," said the boatman. "That is what you paid me to do."

"Across the river… to _where_?" pressed Ciel, gripping the edges of his seat with white-knuckled hands.

"To the Other Side," said Charon, never ceasing the steady rhythm of his rowing.

"_Which_ other side?" insisted Ciel. Though really, he already knew.

"The one to which I have travelled since time began and will travel always; the one to which all must eventually travel… with their souls – or without them."

Ciel gasped in fury and the Cheshire cat moon grinned even more brightly down at him.

He jumped instantly to his feet and the little boat tipped precariously at the shift in balance, but Ciel's fists remained clenched at his sides.

"Careful!" exclaimed the boatman, "You'll get water on my new tailcoat! What do you think you're doing? Sit down – you're rocking the boat."

"I will not sit down," said Ciel, the volume of his voice rising. "This is wrong! You are supposed to be taking me back to the living world!"

"You do not belong there."

"That is no concern of yours! This is unacceptable – I have paid you your toll. I demand to be taken back to England this instant!"

"You paid enough for passage into the afterlife," clarified the ferryman. "And you do not belong there, either. For passage back to England… I will require still more."

_More._ Ciel did not have any _more._ Too infuriated to speak, Ciel glared at the ferryman, blue eyes ablaze.

"There must be something - " he gasped finally through his rage. Charon tilted his head to the side yet again, wondering curiously what this strange soulless boy would come up with this time.

"There must be _something…something!"_

_But what?_

_

* * *

_Sebastian knew, as he removed himself respectfully from the master and his guests, that Elizabeth would soon attempt to seek him out. With this in mind, he had supplied himself with four extra handkerchiefs in addition to the two he already carried, just to be safe. He had toyed with the notion of using the ones with the Phantomhive crest embroidered on them, but eventually decided otherwise, since that would only serve to prolong the inevitable weeping.

Pausing in his tracks at the top of the blue carpeted staircase, Sebastian pondered the slight dilemma before him. It was a simple matter, but one that posed an interesting challenge. The truth of the matter was –

He didn't know what he was going to tell her. He could only imagine how the conversation would go…

_"I do beg your pardon, Miss Elizabeth, but you see, I've eaten his soul."_

No, that wouldn't do at all.

The sound of a door clicking softly shut on the ground floor alerted Sebastian that it was time to improvise. Elizabeth's father, begging her age and the subject matter of their meeting, which was surely boring her, had allowed her to be excused from the room. Reed had consented and out Elizabeth promptly went, and she had only taken a few steps when she caught sight of Sebastian descending the stairs.

"Sebastian," she called, softly. He came closer and stood before her. Elizabeth glanced back towards the parlor door, hoping that no one should come out of it and interrupt them. She turned back to face him, then hesitated, suddenly tongue-tied. But Sebastian was equal to the occasion. He smiled kindly; reassuringly, and placed his hand over his heart.

"My condolences, Miss Elizabeth," he said, "for your loss."

"Oh!" breathed Elizabeth, her eyes welling up with tears. "You're so selfless, Sebastian! I could never be as brave as you." Tears began to trail down her cheeks. "How," she began, and searched vainly for her handkerchief. Sebastian gently offered her one of his extra four, which she gratefully accepted. "How on earth can you stand it – without him?"

"I stand it because I must," said Sebastian. Elizabeth nodded shakily, making a fair effort to restrain herself. But every word she attempted to say held the traces of a sob.

"It's just that… it's just… he was so _miserable_. So miserable, all the time. I never asked… I never tried to make him tell me why, or about… whatever happened."

"It was good of you not to," acknowledged Sebastian, who was finding the concept of comforting Elizabeth easier than he had expected, since she was doing most of the talking. "I am sure he appreciated it."

Elizabeth gave a quavering momentary smile. "I'm just so sure that… in time, eventually, I… I mean I could have tried… I could have made him happy, so _happy_ again." Her tears were falling fast now, and Sebastian handed her a second handkerchief. She took it, but did not use it. She lowered it from her face.

"But he was miserable," Elizabeth continued, her eyes darkening. "All the time. And then he died."

Sebastian looked down at her, preparing to say something comforting; but he stopped. He had suddenly gotten the strangest feeling. Sort of like his stomach had just flipped over, as it would if he had had a sudden flare of emotion. But in an instant it was gone. It was very odd.

Elizabeth, looking up at his face, mistook his puzzled expression for one of empathy. "Oh, Sebastian," she said, with a flutter of a tearful laugh, "I'm sorry. Here I'm going on and on while if there's anyone who misses him as much as I do, it's you." In the sweet way which was most natural to her, Elizabeth impulsively reached out and took one of Sebastian's hands in her own. "You're so good to listen," she said. "I knew that _you _would understand."

Sebastian smiled as she let go of his hand. "I am honored that you would confide in me, Miss Elizabeth. And glad – there is certainly no one else to speak about the Young Master the way you do." Elizabeth's green eyes through her tears fairly glowed at the kindness of his statement, though Sebastian had made it purposely vague and pointless.

And _there_ – there was that strange, unfamiliar feeling again, deep inside him. He wondered what it could possibly be.

But he had no time to ponder this, because he soon discovered that Elizabeth needed to talk, and that she had not had any chance of an understanding audience for the past three months, and that she was fully convinced that he, Sebastian, would fit this role. So, for the better part of an hour… Elizabeth did not even think to sit down… she talked, and Sebastian listened. His infinite patience did not abandon him, though to his mild surprise, listening to Elizabeth talk and talk about Ciel did not require much patience. It was almost nice to hear. She knew the Young Master much better than the Young Master had probably ever suspected. Sebastian, in spite of himself, found that he was growing almost interested as Elizabeth delved descriptively into the years before "that month", in which she had known Ciel, but Sebastian had not.

"– and he was bossy," continued Elizabeth as she sniffled, "but I didn't mind being bossed… most of the time." She wiped at her nose again; she was getting the last use out of handkerchief number four. "We quarreled over it sometimes, but he would usually win. He was good at quarrelling."

Sebastian nearly rolled his eyes, as he remembered this to be something of an understatement.

"_You_ know how bossy he could be," Elizabeth said. "That's one thing that didn't change after Uncle Vincent and Aunt Rachel died. But he'd stop bossing me around if I started crying. He hated that," she said, and her voice broke at the end of her statement. "I'm sorry, Sebastian," she gasped again, trying to regain her composure. "I suppose I'm being an awful crybaby."

She cleared her throat, took a deep breath, and carefully dabbed the tears from beneath her eyes. "Ciel wouldn't like it, I'm sure. It's just that… I miss him so terribly," she said, her voice full of quiet feeling. She raised beseeching eyes to Sebastian. "You're really the only one who can understand," she said again.

Sebastian privately agreed with her. And he could not deny that it was a pleasant intermission from Jeremiah Reed, being able to discuss his former Young Master. In fact, Sebastian would have been quite content to go on reminiscing just a bit longer; had not something very strange happened just then.

Later, Sebastian would always remember it having happened slowly, though he knew it couldn't have taken more than an instant.

The moment that Elizabeth had lifted her eyes to him, the air behind her had shimmered. And as soon as she said "You're really the only one," Sebastian wondered for the first time in his life if he mightn't be hallucinating.

For as soon as Elizabeth uttered the word "understand," Sebastian found himself staring, transfixed, at a point slightly behind Elizabeth, just to her right, where Ciel Phantomhive was suddenly standing.

Sebastian could see right through him to the mirror on the far wall, where only he and Elizabeth were reflected. Ciel, aside from being see-through, looked just as he had looked in life, from the proud tilt of his head to the displeased downturn of his mouth.

The transparent Ciel stared right back at Sebastian and crossed his arms petulantly.

"You've really no idea how much trouble I've had getting here," he said.

Sebastian was fairly floored.

* * *

"Sebastian."

"Sebastian…?"

"_Sebastian,_" Reed hissed sharply through his teeth for the second time, and Sebastian finally seemed to hear him. "A moment, if you would."

Sebastian had only distantly heard his master the first time he was addressed, and he had not even thought to respond to Elizabeth's soft query. Reluctantly, he tore his intensely perplexed eyes off of what he could only conclude was the beginning of his descent into madness, for it was obvious that no one else; not Reed, nor any of the Middlefords could see or hear whatever it was that Sebastian could.

"If you'll just allow me a moment, Marquis," said Reed to Elizabeth's father, "I must confer with my butler over a small matter. I won't be more than a minute." And Sebastian followed him into his study, where, once the door was shut, Jeremiah seated himself behind a gargantuan desk of black oak and dropped any imitation of civility. His smile melted from his face.

"Well!" he said, before Sebastian had a chance to ask. "Well, what did I tell you? They're falling right into my hands! Just like I told you they would."

"With all due respect, sir," said Sebastian with flawless decorum, "Until you close the deal, it might be wise not to get ahead of yourself. The Marquis did not become a knight by being hastily trusting, and the Marchioness is a shrewd woman. I would humbly suggest that, before you proceed, you make quite sure that - "

"Sebastian," cut in Reed with a glower, "_Shut up_. I've made it this far and I sure as hell don't need any crummy advice from no squawking butler."

"Sir, I would never presume to -"

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" Reed leaned forward in his chair, fixing Sebastian with an almost mocking expression. "Christ, Sebastian," he spat, sinking back. "Sometimes I start to get the idea that you think you're somethin' smarter than me." He raised his voice angrily. "I don't think I like it."

Sebastian opened his mouth to give an appropriate response, but a new voice cut him off.

"Goodness, Sebastian… does he talk to you that way all the time?"

Ciel, looking as though he was made of mist and air, had appeared silently in the room and had moved behind the desk, where he stood at Jeremiah's right and narrowed his arrogant eyes as he appraised Sebastian's new employer. "Atrocious accent," he remarked.

Sebastian's surprise obviously showed on his face, because Jeremiah rapped his knuckles on the top of the desk and gave a little whistle, as if he were calling to a dog.

"You listenin' to me?"

"Of course, sir," said Sebastian, recovering. This was terrible. He had never been so inattentive or distracted. It was making him appear amateurish. Not that Jeremiah Reed, frankly, was anyone to impress, but still - he had an image to uphold. "I was just about to suggest…"

But Jeremiah cut him off again with a theatrically impatient groan. "Of course you were; you and your everlasting _suggestions. _D'you know how sick I'm getting of you and your suggestions? Look here, now, I don't need you telling me every minute of the day that "_Sir, if you please, that's the third notice the bank has sent you," _and "_Don't you think that six glasses of wine is enough for tonight, sir?" _and "_Do you think it wise to bet even more on that horse for the third time running?" _and"_Actually, sir, the cook's name isn't Robert, it's Benjamin," _or…"

"Benjamina," corrected Sebastian coolly. "Your cook is a woman, Master Reed."

"There you go again," exclaimed Reed. "It is not the butler's place to correct his master, Sebastian. Ever. Get me?"

"My apologies, Master Reed," said Sebastian. He noticed, to his slight relief, that Ciel… or whatever had taken the shape of Ciel… seemed to be content now with simply watching their interaction and had not made any more comments.

"You even had a damn issue with the invitations to the Middlefords! I mean, really. How much of a snob are you?"

"I still insist, sir," asserted Sebastian, "That you cannot be both 'Mister' and 'Esquire' at the same time. It must be either one or the other."

"Bullshit," snorted Jeremiah. "I can be 'Esquire' if I damn well please. And another thing – this correcting my grammar all the time. That's getting awful old, and fast."

Sebastian had to almost visibly restrain himself from doing just that, but he still had one more thing to say. "Master Reed," he began, "I would implore you to, at the very least, refrain from using so many… colorful expressions in your speech, especially while your guests are present. And most definitely never around those as young as Miss Elizabeth. It might very easily put a stain on your reputation if the child were to hear."

A sinister, scheming, nasty expression crept onto Jeremiah's face at those words. "Well," he said in a dangerously soft tone, looking Sebastian in the eye, "We'll just see about little Miss Elizabeth Middleford, won't we? Stupid little cun - "

"Master Reed," said Sebastian, forcefully cutting off the last word. "I will take your orders to heart. Do remember that the Marquis is waiting for you."

"Of course," grumbled Reed, and, pushing his chair out so far that it nearly hit the wall behind him, he left the room. But what was said had been said, and if Ciel could have gone white with rage, Sebastian was sure that he would have.

He said not a word, but his eyes, though transparent, were furious, and before Sebastian could say a word, the apparition that looked like Ciel had swept out of the room and followed Jeremiah into his meeting with the Marquis.

* * *

Sebastian, left suddenly alone in the study, attempted to make some sense of his jumbled thoughts. Everything had become very strange very rapidly.

He was absolutely positive that a soul, once eaten, could not be revived. So, the thing that might be Ciel could not possibly be a ghost. He was positive that he was still contentedly full, which proved that the soul in question was most definitely gone. And he was positive that this mysterious appearance might bode very ill for him in the future.

Sebastian did not like it when forces outside of his control interfered in his life. As the head of the Phantomhi – the _Reed_ household staff, he should always have control over any situation that might arise.

And yet… that voice had sounded so much like Ciel's, and the expression had been Ciel's, and the perfect posture, and even those clothes… It was all quite baffling.

Sebastian, in a rare state of distraction, sat slowly down on the edge of the black oak desk. His face sank into a frown and his brow creased in mystified annoyance. Outside the office, he could hear the voices of Reed and the Marquis in another room, and he could guess that Frances was probably in the process of wiping the last of the tears from her daughter's face.

Sebastian's eyes were lowered contemplatively, and he became so immersed in his thoughts that it took him a moment to notice that someone was poking his head around the study door and grinning in at him.

It was the Undertaker, who proceeded to invite himself into the room.

"What a solemn face! Why, what ails you, Sebastian?" asked the Undertaker slyly. "Something you ate, perhaps?" he said, and cackled merrily at his own wit.

Sebastian looked up at him sharply.

"I take it the Earl arrived safe and sound, then? All in one piece?"

"I suppose you had a hand in this," said Sebastian darkly.

"Not really," the Undertaker shrugged, seating himself comfortably in Reed's chair and sprawling languidly in it. "I only helped move things along a bit. It wasn't my idea. I just thought it was funny, so of course I had to get involved."

"Feet off the desk, if you please," ordered Sebastian. "And whose idea was it, then, to bring… whatever is here, here?"

_"Well,"_ said the Undertaker in mock thoughtfulness, "I guess, mostly, it was yours. And the Earl's, of course."

"What do you mean _my -"_

"And little Miss Middleford helped as well," the Undertaker concluded.

Sebastian regarded him sternly. "I assure you, I haven't a clue what's caused this mess." Sebastian said. "Now, either you are able to tell me why a transparent version of the late Young Master is currently eavesdropping on Master Reed, or you have no answers at all, in which case, seeing as you saw fit to show yourself in, you may show yourself out."

The Undertaker's pleasant expression never faltered.

"You know," he said, "usually I would ask for a few laughs in exchange for my answers, but I'm not so sure you're up to it at the moment."

Truly, there were no traces of humor on Sebastian's face.

"What is he," Sebastian asked, "and what is he doing here?"

At this the Undertaker chuckled. "You know, he asked the very same thing of me not an hour ago? Isn't that killing?"

"Killing," agreed Sebastian in a dangerous tone. The Undertaker composed himself.

"Well, you've got his soul… in a manner of speaking. He's really here because you wanted him."

Sebastian stared. "I beg your pardon?"

The Undertaker's white teeth flashed in a grin. "Sometimes I wonder what the two of you would ever do without me," he said. "You summoned him yourself, you foolish bird. You and his little heartbroken fiancée missed him so much that you managed to get a piece of him back. And of course, it couldn't have worked if he hadn't wanted to come back badly enough himself."

Sebastian was only aware of one implication, and he was not pleased by it.

"You are spouting utter nonsense, Undertaker," said Sebastian coldly, "as usual. I have never _missed_ anyone in all of my exceedingly long life. And if I did, I certainly wouldn't waste such feelings on a pitiful human soul."

But even as he spoke, Sebastian was recalling that fleeting, unidentifiable feeling… that he was beginning to suspect had very little to do with his own emotions, whatever they might turn out to be.

It had felt much more like… like a soul, writhing restlessly within him as if it knew its own fate and was less than satisfied.

The Undertaker noticed the change in the butler's face and smiled.

"I still say it is impossible for him to be here," Sebastian insisted. "He can't exist without his soul."

"Yet here he is," said the Undertaker. "You see, Ciel Phantomhive was full of spirit. Some people haven't any spirit at all, hardly. They would be done for if their souls were taken by the likes of you. But the Earl always had plenty, and that is what lives on, now. The soul is the self, but the spirit drives the soul. You see? Good heavens, what _would_ you do without me?"

"Undertaker," said Sebastian, as a last attempt, "you are the most powerful Reaper to ever wield a scythe. You were even the one who sentenced Marie Antoinette to Hell. Couldn't you simply… remove the Young Master?"

For the first time, the Undertaker's smile melted away, leaving a rather irritated expression in its place. "I did nothing of the sort!" he said, plainly affronted. "She was a lovely woman. That was just a vicious rumor. And I know who started it, the gossiping shrew."

He seemed to come back to himself after that, and his natural smile returned to his face. He opened his mouth to give Sebastian an answer… but at that very moment, the voices of the Marquis and Mr. Reed suddenly rang clearly out in the hall as their footsteps travelled closer to the study door. The voices of Frances and Elizabeth chimed in soon after.

"Ah, well," said the Undertaker, getting up and sending a cheeky grin in Sebastian's direction. "I see you're busy just now. Another time, then, Sebastian. I'll be off, now. Ta!" And he was gone.

Sebastian fumed and seethed, but he buried his anger and did not let it show as he quietly exited the study to escort the Middlefords to their carriage and see them off.

The Marquis looked troubled, absorbed in thought, and did not spare Sebastian a nod as he opened the door to allow the Marquis into the carriage.

Elizabeth gave him another smile as he helped her up. It was quick, but fairly brimming with gratitude.

Frances lingered outside for a moment, and when Sebastian looked up, she was observing him with an even gaze. "I can't help but admire your resilience, Sebastian," she said, and gave a small sigh. "Poor Ciel. God rest his soul."

She stepped up into the carriage then, and Sebastian shut the door. He glanced over to the manor doorway, where Ciel, very transparent, but very real and very angry, was standing. He had watched the Middlefords as they left, and no one had seen him but Sebastian, who quirked a brow and placed his gloved fingertips lightly on his temple in response to Frances' parting words.

"Indeed," he replied.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you, THANK YOU to those who reviewed the first chapter! Your words were balm to my soul. Just in case anyone is reading this who has only seen the show and not the manga, Frances' little comment about Sebastian being indecent is a reference to the incident in the manga where she slicks back Sebastian's hair (to his very great surprise) because she doesn't think he looks proper. It's definitely a lol moment :) Hopefully the next chapter won't take me so long!


	3. And All for Want of a Whisk

**Chapter Three:**

**And All for Want of a Whisk**

**

* * *

**

"_A little charm, and you are not ordinary."_

~ Anonymous

* * *

Jeremiah Reed had the distinct suspicion that his butler was laughing at him. In supposing this he was entirely correct, but, not being overly bright or particularly observant, he remained merely suspicious and nothing more.

There was an obvious fact hanging just over Jeremiah's head, and though he could not grasp it literally, he saw hints of it reflected in his butler's strange eyes. The fact was that his demon servant was classier, more distinguished; more refined than he was, and that anyone who saw the two of them so much as stand next to each other couldn't help but see it too. Jeremiah detested the idea that his butler should consider himself superior to his master. It was ludicrously inappropriate. It grated at his mind.

It was this hazy concept that began to fuel Jeremiah's spite towards Sebastian, so that every time he caught sight of the contract etched onto the underside of his right forearm, his little hatred flared and grew stronger.

Sebastian, who unlike his master _was_ both bright and observant, knew that all this was taking place in Jeremiah's mind. He found it greatly pleasing. The little digs and quips and sweetened insults that had in the past been the basis of satisfyingly sharp banter with Ciel were usually lost on Jeremiah, who, if he did happen to catch on, would demand outright, "Are you insulting me?" Which of course, spoiled the whole thing.

Ciel, being himself quite bright, observant, and invisible to other humans saw many of these flat encounters firsthand, as well as something else.

He saw that Sebastian was beginning to get annoyed with Jeremiah. And no wonder, he thought. The real problem, in Ciel's opinion, was that Reed, the moron, just had no idea how to make the best of having a demon in service.

Sebastian, though he was reluctant to admit it even to himself, was inclined to agree with this perception. But as things were, he had quite enough to deal with at the moment and felt that he was entitled to a little stress. After all, not only was his current master a dull and raging incompetent, but his former master had recently returned from nonexistence and was making a damn nuisance of himself. He would, unfailingly, make off-color jibes and comments and scoff under his breath at Jeremiah whenever he was around, which Sebastian found very distracting. And it was all the more irritating to him because he found himself wishing that he could make such comments himself.

Jeremiah Reed _almost_ fitted the mold of the Wicked Nobleman – almost. He wasn't noble enough, though he certainly was wicked enough. He was overflowing with wickedness, but though he was highborn and well bred he was coarse and rotten to his core, and even his blue blood could not disguise this from Sebastian… or Ciel.

At the end of the second day of Ciel's presence, after having used the whole day to digest what the Undertaker had told him, Sebastian addressed Ciel bluntly as he made his rounds of the house, extinguishing lights.

"You are making a nuisance of yourself," he told him. "Talented as I undoubtedly am, I cannot present the night's dessert to Master Reed and tell you to shut up in the same breath without the Master noticing. It is most inconvenient for me…" and here he paused. "_Ciel."_

Ciel could not physically feel very many things unless he really put effort into it, but when Sebastian said his name for the first time it gave him a start and sent chills coursing through him. Since he did not have a body, this felt very odd indeed. He looked up at Sebastian in surprise. "You have never called me by my name before," he said.

"No," agreed Sebastian. "I have not."

He was glad that Ciel seemed to realize the momentousness of the occasion. And it was, truly, momentous.

Because Sebastian was raptly fascinated with names. This stemmed, probably, from having always to call anyone of any significance "Sir", "Master", "Madame", and other properly respectful titles of that nature. They varied with time, class, and importance. To call any one of his masters by their given name while in their service would have been considered the height of impropriety.

So, when the time came to sever ties and collect his final payments, Sebastian reveled in the ability to utter names. Names had a sort of power over people, he discovered. He himself was delightfully immune to it, having had so many temporary names. But to those who only ever had _one - _why, it was like stealing something precious from them.

Sebastian was old enough to have learned that knowing someone's true name gave him a certain measure of power over them. As a butler, subservient and submissive, this gave Sebastian a secret advantage that he only needed to utilize once, when it would be most traumatic.

His masters always seemed so surprised to hear their names from his lips. And Sebastian, if he did say so himself, had a way with names. He could instill fear with a name, soothe with a name; bid farewell with a name. Letting a name flow over his tongue was like a necessary forerunner to claiming a soul. An appetizer, of sorts, or an aperitif.

There were only two instances in Sebastian's lengthy career when, out of respect, he had refrained from using his masters' names. The first had been a demon more powerful than Sebastian, with a name that sounded black and scarlet and golden, and which Sebastian, to that day, had never once spoken aloud. The second had been Ciel Phantomhive.

Sebastian didn't quite know why; it had simply been his whim to continue calling the boy affectionately "Young Master" until the very end. Perhaps he thought that Ciel deserved it. In any case, calling the detached specter before him by a title of any kind was both unnecessary and somehow inappropriate. So Sebastian smiled happily, and called Ciel by his name.

Ciel had snuck a taste of liquor once at a party long ago with his parents. That was what Sebastian's voice had always reminded him of. Smooth as silk; a liquid coolness that burned its way down. Of course, the thrill of the forbidden that had accompanied that one drink had very quickly become a choking, spluttering grimace, and Ciel had been scolded. When Sebastian said his name, it reminded Ciel a bit of that.

And really, could Sebastian be any more pleased? Even the demon's long-lashed eyes were smiling at him. He chose not to say anything further to Sebastian just yet. He merely let a look pass between them that he knew Sebastian could translate.

_If I am a nuisance, it is your fault, _the look said. _It is because of you that I am here in the first place. _Ciel did not know what Sebastian expected him to do about it. But for all his apparent ability to fray Sebastian's nerves, Ciel noticed that the butler did not actually seem too intent on getting rid of him. Perhaps this was just because he couldn't, and so there was no use in trying. But then, Sebastian had always had a roundabout way of expressing himself which defied Ciel's analysis.

There was silence for a while in the Reed manor hallways as, one light at a time, Sebastian plunged them into darkness.

At the end of a long corridor on the third floor, Sebastian glanced surreptitiously around for Ciel. The lost spirit of the boy tended to be impossibly quiet, and, often, Ciel would suddenly appear or disappear according to his moods. A minute ago, Sebastian was sure that Ciel had been no more than a step behind him, but now he might be wandering about in the cellar for all Sebastian knew. It was disconcerting, this new disadvantage that left Sebastian open to surprise.

But no; there Ciel was a little ways away, facing a portrait of Jeremiah Reed on the wall. In it, Reed looked to be about Ciel's age, though not nearly as comely. Ciel's expression as he stared at the painting was sour and disapproving. He did not have a very high opinion of Jeremiah Reed. How could he, when their sets of values were so vastly different?

"Not as different as you would like to assume," Sebastian had corrected him the previous day. "Do you know what his first order was, after bargaining away his soul?" His eyes rested comfortably, unmoving, on Ciel's face. "'_Kill them'_, he told me."

Ciel kept trying and failing to hold the demon's gaze, and his dark blue eyes darted up and back, as though retreating.

"And so I did," Sebastian said. "But he didn't stop with those degenerates of society chasing him down like a dog because he wouldn't pay his debts. He was out for revenge, too. Against his parents." His voice filled Ciel's head. "Would you like to know how I killed them?"

"Not terribly," murmured Ciel, affecting indifference.

Sebastian had smiled his open mouthed smile, his pale lips parting from the darkness of his mouth, and Ciel could not look at him, though he didn't know why.

"Terribly," said Sebastian. "I killed them terribly. I went to them while they slept, and I stood by the window, sending them nightmares, and when his mother opened her eyes and saw me there she thought I was the devil. It was very dark. She screamed and woke up her husband. But I leaned down and kissed her, and I put my tongue down her throat to choke her and her husband saw, and then I reached up and pricked out her eyes. Her husband loved her eyes," Sebastian clarified.

Ciel would have tried to make him stop, but he knew that it wouldn't have done any good.

"So to make it even I pricked out his eyes, too. They stopped screaming. Probably they were in too much pain to scream. Then I took them to entrance hall, and I tied nooses around their necks, and I let them drop from the chandelier. It was very sturdy," Sebastian assured Ciel, "and it was a long fall." He raised his head to look up at the high ceiling, for they were, at that moment, in the entrance hall. "Scotland Yard didn't know what to think, but Master Reed didn't think I was brutal enough. Can you imagine?" He shrugged, and his tranquil expression made Ciel feel lost. "Ah, well. I shall try harder in the future."

Ciel could think of about a dozen retorts he could have made, but he couldn't bring himself to make any of them. Sebastian had not told him all of this in any attempt to shock or disgust him; Ciel had seen plenty worse than anything spiteful Jeremiah Reed could ask for. The whole drawn-out narrative had only been Sebastian's way of saying_ 'you have been replaced, and this is no longer your story.'_ It had been a warning. But Ciel had managed, somehow, finally, to raise his disapproving eyes to Sebastian's and hold them there. "Shut _up,_" he scoffed.

Sebastian had obliged.

"His face seems… cruel," said Ciel, drawing back from the portrait.

With the slightest of breaths, Sebastian blew out the last candle lighting their hallway, and Jeremiah's portrait was shrouded in shadow.

Ciel was no easier to see in the darkness than in the light, but Sebastian kept a close eye on him. The hand that Ciel put up to the window pane was as clearly translucent as the glass it touched. Outside, it had begun to snow.

* * *

Winter had come early to London that year. It was still only the beginning of November, but the temperature had unexpectedly plummeted and seemed content to keep descending, as it frosted buildings and carriage wheels with glittering ice. It snowed for a day, and then another, and another. The week after that, it snowed again. The drifts began to increase in size and get in everyone's way.

Elizabeth, of course, loved the snow. She didn't believe that she could ever think of the wonderful fluffy whiteness as a nuisance, like her parents. What did she care if a week of dinner parties were cancelled, or carriages stuck in slush, or the hems of dresses soaked and ruined? Elizabeth had always been shielded from the starving and poverty-stricken for whom the snow and ice signaled misery, sickness and death. So in Elizabeth's eyes, the city of London sparkled in a snowy gown.

Speaking of which, the time to create winter wardrobes had rolled around. Elizabeth's mother, strict as she was, had a definite eye for fashion and sympathized with her daughter's love of pretty clothes. That, and Elizabeth couldn't very well attend school in last year's fashions. But Frances was just happy to see her daughter's spark returning when the dressmaker arrived, bringing beautiful patterns with her.

During the next week, the Middleford sitting room was buried beneath varying scraps of fine fabric, threaded needles and silver pins. The snap of the measuring tape sounded constantly.

_Everything _that could be renewed was taking shape in that room as the sewing machine hummed. New night-dresses, chemises, dressing gowns, corsets and corset covers, gloves and hats to match the dresses; smart boots to match everything. Three yards of black lace, dark green silk lining, light-colored velvet for hats and muffs, sewing silk and new dress hoops. White organdy, two yards of yellow muslin, silk waist lining, ribbons of every color to tie in her hair and thread through sleeves. Puffed sleeves, fitted sleeves, high collars… and slightly lower ones. Company dresses, home dresses, thin morning dresses. Cashmere and taffeta and delicately embroidered stockings. Each dress must have stockings to match, of course. Wide belts and narrow belts for traveling suits, extra buttons for everything that had buttons, (which was most everything) and lacy new parasols for the day dresses.

Navy blue was out of the question, as it "dulled the green of Elizabeth's eyes," the dressmaker said. But other colors could be found in abundance.

"I'm so glad I can wear green," said Elizabeth, as cloth of every green shade imaginable was draped around her to test the effect. "So few people look good in green, and I just love the shade of my new green dress suit."

Her mother, experimenting with ribbons, was gladdened by the happiness returning to Elizabeth's tone.

"What do you think?" asked the dressmaker, "Shall we style the waist in the newest fashion? It's very becoming, and I believe Miss Middleford is old enough for it now."

"Oh yes, mother, please? It _is_ pretty."

Frances' shrewd eyes scanned her daughter, and she nodded her assent. "Yes, the new style will do," she said, then turned back to her ribbons. But her hands stilled.

Yes, Elizabeth was old enough for the newest fashions. She was in her teens, and it was beginning to show. Her dresses were all being lengthened – how bittersweet that Elizabeth could wear long dresses now. She had to, as her legs were growing long. And her waist was suddenly accentuated in her new outfits… as well as other… parts… that were abruptly becoming noticeable. Her little girl was no longer so little.

Elizabeth, standing on her stool, reflected that she was enjoying herself, and she felt that she had not enjoyed much of anything for a long time. All the same… how _could_ she be enjoying this when Ciel was dead? And what pleasure could new dresses bring if no one but that odious Mr. Reed was to see her in them?

Frances, ever observant, could see the sting of sadness creep back into Elizabeth's eyes… but only for a moment.

Elizabeth had made a decision. She _would_ enjoy herself. There was, as the bible said, "A time to mourn", and a winter wardrobe fitting full of lace and bows and new beginnings was not that time.

"I'll tell you what, Lizzie," said the Marchioness, approaching her to tie a lilac ribbon into her hair. Elizabeth smiled. Her mother was always in a good mood when she called Elizabeth 'Lizzie'. "Your winter holidays begin in three weeks, don't they?"

"Yes," answered Elizabeth. Frances pulled on the loops of the bow to even them out, then looked approvingly on her daughter. Elizabeth would not yet consent to wearing any color but black, and the bright ribbon brought some much needed variation to her attire.

Elizabeth watched her mother curiously as she fussed over her, and wondered briefly whether she could ever grow to be as strong. She hoped so. Where Elizabeth could be flighty and scatterbrained, Frances was always so reliable; so complete.

She often wore an ivory and onyx cameo brooch of a woman in profile pinned onto her collar, and Elizabeth had always admired it and thought it beautiful. Frances was wearing it now. Elizabeth looked at it and imagined herself, years and years in the future; a straight-laced adult with a cameo brooch pinned to her collar, married to some faceless stranger who was not Ciel. That would be her life when she was her mother's age. And it would not by any means be terrible, but… but…

Though Elizabeth's smile melted a bit at this thought, her mother's next words brought it back.

"What do you say we throw a Christmas party this year?"

Frances was gratified as Elizabeth fairly hopped on her stool for joy and threw her arms about her mother. Frances guessed that Elizabeth was still not quite as grown up as she might look, and that suited her perfectly.

* * *

"An undetermined future service?" repeated Sebastian incredulously. "The boatman made a deal with you without specifying payment? _I_ never would have done such a thing."

"He seemed surprised at the offer," admitted Ciel, a trifle defensively. "But he took it, didn't he? It's not as if I had anything else to bargain with."

Sebastian's smile was condescending and contemplative. "What could a little thing like you ever accomplish that Charon could not get for himself?" he wondered.

Ciel bristled. He might not have been much of anything anymore, substantially speaking, but his wit and his tongue were still bitingly sharp.

"Well _something_, obviously," he retorted testily, "since he accepted the offer and I got what I wanted."

"Yes," agreed Sebastian distantly. "You might now be obligated to do any number of unpleasant or impossible things."

"Oh, shut up," said Ciel. "I told him I would do it, whatever it is, and I will. You know I had no other choice."

"That's true," allowed Sebastian. "Your resourcefulness in hopeless situations does indeed astound."

Ciel frowned slightly. "You're being sarcastic, aren't you?"

"Certainly not," said Sebastian.

"…_Hmph_," said Ciel.

Sebastian turned away to hide a smile.

They were forced to put their conversation on hold for a time when the cook – good natured, matronly, forty-something – re-entered the kitchen. They were baking today, and Ciel was watching with interest as she and Sebastian produced towering delicacies and pastel-colored edible works of art from a few ingredients stirred expertly in a bowl. The aroma wafting from the ovens was tantalizing at the very least, but the wonderful smells did not make Ciel hungry. He was beginning to forget what hunger felt like.

While Sebastian worked magic with pink frosting and powdered sugar, Ciel resumed his attempts at a task which had been daunting him for weeks now, but that he continued to fail to achieve. His failure was not due to lack of trying, as the effort exerted often exhausted Ciel entirely. Sebastian, when he could, stole a glance at him. He was pretending not to notice Ciel's mounting aggravation and disappointment, which was good of him, and the right thing to do.

Ciel was trying to pick up a whisk.

He would lower his hand, fingers tentatively outstretched, and attempt to wrap them around the kitchen utensil. But though he tried again and again, his hand would simply pass right through it. Ciel grit his teeth in anger. He couldn't do it. He couldn't pick up the whisk. Or the books in the library, or the candle on a dresser, or the picture frame on a desk.

A few of the other servants had actually walked right through him when he had not moved out of their way quickly enough. It was a_ very_ unpleasant sensation for Ciel, getting passed through; not being noticed. But the servants had not felt a thing. He was utterly undetectable, except to Sebastian.

He was determined to remedy this.

The only progress he had made was that he was now able to seat himself on solid objects without falling through them. Ciel was not satisfied with this, however, because if he got too distracted, he would lose all his concentration and find himself inside or below the desk he had been perched on, or seated awkwardly halfway through a chair. Sebastian, to his credit, tried very hard not to laugh when these things happened. Ciel's pride was bruised and battered almost beyond recognition as it was.

And Ciel was growing actually a bit desperate. If he could not so much as lift a whisk from a kitchen counter, how could he protect Elizabeth from Jeremiah Reed? Or possibly… from Sebastian? He had not voiced this hidden fear to the butler, but he had no doubt that it had crossed Sebastian's mind.

Sebastian would do exactly as Reed bid him. And Reed meant Elizabeth harm.

As long as Sebastian followed a master who was plotting against the Middlefords, he was a danger to Elizabeth. And therefore also to what remained of Ciel. _"Would you like to know how I killed them?" _had a habit of floating through Ciel's mind whenever he thought of this, and the thrill of fear accompanying it never grew any slighter.

Sebastian glanced over his shoulder at Ciel; a sneaking smirk of a glance, mirthful and knowing. Sebastian could tell what Ciel was thinking of, to put such fear on his ghostly face. He could always tell.

Ciel caught the glance after it vanished, and it stayed with him, perched on his shoulder. He had never been able to hide from Sebastian even when he was alive. But back then, of course, there had been no need to. Now he was dead and had nothing more to lose, and he was frightened of that glance. It was uncontrollable and strong, and Ciel was so very, very weak.

The thought came to him then, suddenly, randomly, and unbidden, that he did not know Sebastian very well at all. Sebastian was a stranger to him, and perhaps he always had been, even if he had never known it. How well could one get to know their butler, really, when he was not even human?

* * *

Christmas in the Middleford ballroom was spectacular.

It was not quite Christmas yet; about a week before, as a matter of fact. Ciel's birthday on the fourteenth had come and passed without his remembering it. Sebastian had remembered, but had not said anything. He knew that birthdays do not matter except to measure life, and would be of no use to Ciel anyway.

Jeremiah Reed attended the event, bringing Sebastian with him for no particular reason other than to order him about with witnesses around, as if it might somehow humble Sebastian in some way. With Sebastian came Ciel, and the latter was feeling very humble indeed just then, having still yet failed to make any noticeable impact on the world around him. The aforementioned whisk still resolutely refused to budge no matter what Ciel did. He had even stopped wandering off by himself, since Sebastian was the only one who knew he was there. If he spent too much time alone, unnoticed by all those around him, Ciel began to doubt his own presence, which was a very nasty sensation. He began to feel that if he doubted too much he might disappear altogether, and how could he protect Elizabeth from Jeremiah then?

But in the shining glow of Christmas at the Middlefords', Ciel put his present troubles aside to make way for a host of new ones.

A magnificent supper was served in the dining room, and after that there was dancing and drinking and socializing in the polished and sparkling ballroom. The rustle and swish of the frills on the women's dresses were a constant accompaniment to the music of the hired orchestra, as well as the sway of delicate gauzy fans that swung from every lady's wrist; only for show, since it was the middle of winter. The aroma of spiced wine complemented the soft candlelight that was reflected in the abundance of jewels the women had adorned themselves with. The gentlemen, in their best, highest, and most constricting collars stood stiffly in groups talking business with one another or dancing with their wives, or keeping close eyes on their daughters.

In a room somewhat off to the side, some of the younger crowd had gathered around the grand piano. Someone who could play had taken it upon himself to do so, and the group proceeded to do their favorite carols as much justice as they could, though the littlest ones sometimes created marvelous discords.

_God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay,_

_Remember Christ our savior was born on Christmas day,_

_To save us all from Satan's power when we were gone astray,_

_Oh, tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy,_

_Oh, tidings of comfort and joy!_

Out in the ballroom Sebastian stood, tray in hand, serving, observing, and smiling at humanity as if good will were his real nature. He was resplendent in his finest clothes, and was somehow managing to look more festive in deepest black than many of the actual guests in their whirling holiday hues. He looked that night, as he usually did, as if he had been painted into the scene instead of arriving at it like everyone else. Sebastian was a work of art that lived and breathed and served wine in sparkling glasses; he was apart from the throng while in the midst of it, and he was there because the picture wouldn't be complete without him.

Ciel had been to so many occasions just like this that he had long ago lost count of quite how many. As Earl Phantomhive, he had thrown a few like it himself. But now he realized that he had never actually looked at any of it before. Or if he had, he had never known how different it could be when he was on the outskirts looking in.

He kept away from the crowds. There hardly seemed to be any room for him, slip of an echo that he was. When he was alive, parties had never been his favorite of pastimes, but he had never, never been ignored. On the contrary, he had always resented how much attention he attracted. His isolation had always been self-imposed, and that, he discovered, as countless merry eyes stared through him, made more difference than he could possibly have known.

With his back to the wall, Ciel watched the evening progress. He watched Sebastian weave through the crowd, ever the dutiful butler; and he watched Jeremiah Reed, who had had too much wine and was starting to slur, draw a crowd of his own. But mostly he found himself watching Elizabeth.

Elizabeth had refused to wear any color even to the Christmas party, and she was glowing in a frothy white cloud of a dress embroidered with cream-colored roses. It was the most grown-up thing she had ever worn, and in honor of the occasion her mother had fastened the long-admired cameo brooch around her throat with a black sateen ribbon. Besides that, Elizabeth wore no other ornament.

And she was attracting attention. A couple of the older boys…almost young men, but not quite…had situated themselves near her and were doing their best at that very demure version of what passed for flirting at family parties. Elizabeth, as always, was sweet and captivating. But she did not flirt back, not even a little, and when they left her, she did not seem to think that their absence from her side was any loss.

Ciel overheard them as they went: "Sweet girl," said one, "rather juvenile though."

"Sweet," agreed the other. "Too sweet. That much sugar can be nauseating." (The boy felt snubbed, and he was not a graceful loser.)

"Too young anyhow," continued his friend. "Why, that little one still plays with dolls. A child like that shouldn't put on such grown-up airs." (He raised his hand to stroke the peach-fuzz on his chin that was his non-existent beard.) "It makes her seem like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother's clothes. Try again in a few years, eh?"

Ciel, already submersed in gloom, steamed at this exchange. "Why, you…"

He proceeded to curse the pair of scorned suitors with every nasty word he could think of, loudly and vehemently. Of course, no one heard him but Sebastian, who was highly amused to hear them, having been all the way across the room at the time so that it seemed like a loud string of inappropriate words had erupted from out of the air.

Sebastian maneuvered his way slowly to Ciel's side, and observed what held his attention. "Defending Miss Elizabeth's honor?" he whispered. "How valiant."

Ciel whipped his head around to glare violently at him.

"Cheer up," Sebastian suggested. "You are at a party! What could possibly be the matter at this joyous yuletide celebration?"

"I hated parties when I was alive," said Ciel. "Why shouldn't I hate them now? They haven't changed, I have."

"Mm," said Sebastian. "You have, of late, but wherefore you know not, lost all your mirth," he quoted Shakespeare's prince of Denmark with mock whispered emotion.

"Oh _do_ shut up," said Ciel, "You foul and pestilent congregation of vapors."

Sebastian chuckled. "As long as you can quote _Hamlet _correctly_, _you are still yourself. You are right. You have not changed." His smile melted away as he turned. "That is the strangest thing of all."

Ciel wondered at this last statement, but he turned his attention back to Elizabeth… whose attention was now caught by someone else. She seemed almost…annoyed.

Jeremiah Reed was a little ways away and he was attracting more and more notice by the minute. He was becoming steadily drunker and louder than was acceptable in public. And this was a heavier statement than one would think, since many gentlemen there were, to put it plainly, smashed. But they were _aristocratically _smashed.

Some of the guests were laughing good-naturedly at him. "It's Christmas," they said, "And the boy is high-spirited. Let him have his fun."

But others were nervously distancing themselves from him and darting him disgusted and disapproving glances. "He'll cause trouble for his hosts if someone doesn't take that wine glass out of his hand," they said. "He's spilt a good half of it over himself already."

Elizabeth, for a moment, was torn. She did not like Jeremiah. She was the daughter of the house and it was not her place to interfere; that was for her father or older brother to handle. But her brother was away overseas, and the Marquis was nowhere to be seen. Elizabeth excused herself from her circle of friends. These were her parent's guests, but this was also her home, and she would try to do what her mother would do in such an event. She made her way over to Jeremiah Reed.

"Don't bother, Lizzie," said Ciel, following her, weaving in and out of guests who could not see him. "Let someone else handle it." Of course, she could not hear him, and didn't follow his advice. "Not that you'd listen even if you _could_ hear me," said Ciel. "You never have before."

For a moment it appeared that she would have to let someone else handle it. The room was so crowded that Elizabeth could hardly move forward, let alone push her way through. And as part of the crowd thinned a bit, she only had time to see that Reed had separated himself from everyone of his own leave… and had ventured alone out of the ballroom, across the hall, and into the library. Momentarily satisfied, Elizabeth turned to make her way back to her friends. But then she stopped and thought.

Elizabeth loved the family library with its warm lamplight and plush armchairs; its cozy environment of pleasure and knowledge. She seldom read anything but fairy stories, but the option of all the other unopened books was always present, and she loved them, too. She even loved the funny, bloated little chandeliers that hung from the ceiling like ugly crystal jellyfish. She could not let Jeremiah Reed in his drunken state touch anything in this most beloved of rooms. Suppose he was sick on the carpet! Suppose he lost consciousness in her favorite chair, as her brother had done the first time he had tasted whiskey. There would be no moving him if that happened! Suppose he spilled his wine, or soiled a book with his food stained hands.

She turned again, and rushed out after him.

Ciel stifled a groan that no one would have heard anyway. This was worse than if Elizabeth had confronted Reed before a crowd, and might have infinitely worse repercussions. Now the two of them were across the hall, alone, and Reed was awful enough when he was sober, let alone drunk. Damn him, and damn Lizzie for not having the sense to bring someone with her!

He wheeled about to implore Sebastian for help – but just as Elizabeth had done a moment ago, he halted sharply. Sebastian was all the way at the other end of the ballroom, happily serving champagne and being the epitome of polite servility.

"Of course you won't help me, you sly murderer," Ciel thought. "You'll ignore me as sure as I'm born."

But… if Jeremiah Reed were to call for his servant now…if Sebastian were summoned to his master's side… oh, what would happen then?

But in this regard Ciel had a scrap of luck. The mute animosity between Jeremiah Reed and his butler would prevent the proud rake from asking assistance unless his need was dire. This bought Ciel some time.

He followed Elizabeth, and kept close at her heels as she eased open the library door. "Mr. Reed…?" she ventured softly, calling like she would to a runaway pet she didn't want to startle. "Mr. Reed?" again, louder.

Reed had been staring hard at a row of books, leaning forward as though he was having trouble seeing them properly, and when Elizabeth called his name the second time, he turned to her and half-smiled. His eyes were very wide, and the effect was less than friendly.

"Mr. Reed? Ah – wouldn't you like to come back to the party, we're about to serve -"

"Why!" exclaimed Reed. "Why – look who it is. Little _Coppelia_," he sneered, "Little broken doll."

Elizabeth knew an insult when she heard one, but she could not actually bring herself to be insulted by this. She had seen the ballet _Coppelia_; it was a rollicking comedy about a young fool who fell in love with a beautiful doll, and not once in the performance did the doll ever get broken. She knew that Reed was only drunk and displaying his ignorance.

Ciel, having never had any interest in seeing ballet, knew none of this, and was insulted on her behalf.

"I am not a doll, Mr. Reed," said Elizabeth with unworried ease, "neither am I broken. I only wanted to ask if you wouldn't like to join us in - "

Jeremiah cleared his throat with a guttural, phlegm-filled noise. "Listen, Beth," he said.

"_Beth?_" said Elizabeth.

_"Beth?" _said Ciel.

"Don't fancy Beth?" said Jeremiah Reed. "All right; 'Betty', if you like."

"Elizabeth, if you please, Mr. Reed," said Elizabeth with what Ciel considered admirable indulgence.

"_Elizabeth, if you please, Mr. Reed,"_ mocked Jeremiah in a nasal voice.

"Mr. Reed, I - "

"_Mr. Reed, I - "_

"Stop that!" exclaimed Elizabeth. "Have you no class at all?"

_"Stop that!" _mocked Jeremiah.

"Oh!" Elizabeth cried, surrendering to frustration. She marched over to Reed and took him by the wrist. "Come along, now, Mr. Reed. I have never been anything but kind to you, and now you will show me at _least_ the smallest ounce of courtesy you possess!"

Reed's face had turned porridge-colored when Elizabeth had grabbed his wrist and started leading him out of the library. For a moment he said nothing, but Ciel's eyes were locked on his face, and he knew what was about to happen the split second before it did. Jeremiah Reed wrenched himself free with a violent tug; in the same moment he snatched Lizzie by the upper arm to hold her still, swung back his free hand, and slapped her full across the face. The _smack!_ was so loud that it made Ciel jump, and Elizabeth, had Reed not been holding her in place, would have been sent reeling to the floor.

"Don't you touch me," he said, breathless.

Elizabeth staggered back from him. Her lips were shut but her eyes grew wide with shock and pain. Slowly, as if she moved through water, she began to remove the fingers of her glove; one, two, three, four, five. She slid her glove off and laid it carefully on a chair. Tenderly, she touched her cheek, and winced. "Mr. Reed?" she said, very softly.

"What?" he muttered, still breathing heavily.

_**SMACK!**_

Ciel's mouth had dropped open and he stood gaping at Elizabeth like an invisible fish. What a shot!

Jeremiah, stunned, stumbled back, tripped over a footstool and fell hard into a shelf of books. "Holy shit, girl!" he yelped. "What in hell do you think you're doing?"

"_Jeremiah Reed!_" exclaimed a voice in outrage. "How _dare _you?" The three in the library swung around in unison to the doorway, where Frances Middleford, looking more deadly than Ciel had ever seen her look, was standing – with at least half the crowd of the Christmas party behind her, all whispering in shock and excitement.

Elizabeth demurely slipped her elbow-length glove back onto the hand she had struck Jeremiah Reed with. Her expression was effortlessly blameless.

"How dare you use such language in my house in front of my daughter? Have you no decency?"

Jeremiah did not seem able to speak.

"I see," said the Marchioness, (who, Ciel was disappointedly realizing, had not seen nearly enough.) "It seems to me that you have had quite enough Christmas spirit for tonight, wouldn't you say?" (At this there was soft laughter from the crowd of guests.) "Yes, I thought as much. Sebastian? Ah – there you are. Your master is feeling a bit ill; he wishes to be taken home."

The dutiful butler attended to his master on the Marchioness' command.

_Good for Aunt Frances, _Ciel thought. _Leave it to her not to let any grass grow under _her _feet when she wants someone out of her way. And good for Lizzie! Who ever knew she had it in her? I suppose if Sebastian hadn't stopped me from raising my hand against her that time last year, she'd have belted me one in return! _Then Ciel realized with horror that he had just thought the phrase "_belted me one_", and knew that he must stop adopting crude, slang terms from Jeremiah Reed.

"Elizabeth," said Frances, "Your cheeks are awfully red. You haven't been sipping the champagne when I specifically told you not to?"

"Oh mother, of course not," said Lizzie, with the simplicity of the honest. "I only… well I only argued a little with Mr. Reed over the ballet _Coppelia, _and I'm afraid I began to lose my temper. It was all very silly."

"_What?"_ Ciel exploded. He had been longing to see Jeremiah Reed revealed for what he was, and now - "_What?_ Lizzie, tell her what happened! Tell her – why in hell is she covering for that rat?"

"She is displaying good sense," murmured Sebastian, as he guided a lolling, surly Jeremiah Reed past where he stood.

"Wassat?" said Reed.

"Hush, sir," Sebastian bid him.

"Sebastian, this is idiotic; what could she possibly gain by - "

"_Hush,"_ repeated Sebastian with a sting in his tone, "we lack privacy here. Come along."

And the butler led his current and former masters out of the Middleford Manor, one heavily intoxicated, with one arm slung over Sebastian's shoulder and his feet dragging, and the other silent as death and unnoticed by everyone, smoldering with increasing anger and stopping every now and then to turn and look behind him, as if he didn't want to leave. From within, he could hear that the carolers were still going on as if nothing had happened.

_Hark! The herald angels sing_

_Glory to the newborn king!_

_Peace on earth and mercy mild_

_God and sinners reconciled…_

_

* * *

_

Ciel sat in the kitchen of Reed's estate staring off into space, his impotent anger cold in his lungs. He sat and hated. The whisk rested mockingly next to him.

Sebastian was helping the other servants put Reed to bed; he had passed cleanly out during the carriage ride home. Ciel understood now that it would have been useless for Elizabeth to play the injured ingénue before her mother and her guests. It would have ruined the party; ruined everyone's night, gotten her unwanted attention and false sympathy by the gallon. And it would never do to let anyone know that Elizabeth had been so bold as to strike a young man who had just recently lost his parents. Young girls were defenseless and helpless; never would they raise their delicate hands against anyone. If Lizzie behaved like a proper young lady, she would have either screamed for help or fainted dead away when struck. Not doing either of these things simply would not be acceptable or understood.

And besides – come morning, Reed would deny everything. And most people, not knowing him very well, would take him at his word.

"Still here?" asked Sebastian, entering the room from the butler's pantry. "I only have a moment to speak, the others will be here presently to 'close up', as Nora says. Did you know she worked in three Italian restaurants before being hired here?"

"You were right outside the doors, weren't you?" said Ciel. His voice was low with the effort of controlling himself. "You were right there. You could have stopped him from touching her. You let him do it. You didn't stop him the way you stopped me. Why not?" His voice grew louder as his temper began to break free of his restraint. The thoughts in his head were pouring from his mouth.

"For you to raise your hand against Elizabeth was to ruin all that was best about your nature," Sebastian said. "It was my duty to prevent you from doing so. Jeremiah Reed has no such redeeming qualities of his own. To bully and beat those weaker than he is as instinctive to him as breathing."

"You could have stopped him!"

"Why should I have stopped him?"

"Sebastian, it was _Elizabeth!" _Ciel was yelling now, but Sebastian's voice was soft and casual.

"And what does Elizabeth matter to Jeremiah Reed? Are you forgetting that I serve a new master now? Or perhaps you still labor under the delusion that you have any control over _me._" He smiled a pitiless smile.

"That _isn't_ what I - "

"And besides – Elizabeth does not need my protection. After all, _you _were with her. Why didn't_ you _protect her?" At this Ciel's anger seemed to transcend language and stifle him, for of course, Sebastian had found the root of everything.

The cook, the elder of the two maids, and two of the cook's assistants entered the kitchen then, and Sebastian turned away from the apparently empty counter-space he had been speaking to. Hatred burned coldly in Ciel's eyes. "I hate you," he said. The kitchen was filled with the servant's chatter.

"I hate you," he said again, louder. "And I hate Jeremiah Reed. I hate this house and everyone in it, I hate my aunt and I hate Elizabeth, I hate that no one can hear me, I hate that I am dead, I hate that I am dead and nothing has changed, I hate that _everything _has changed, I hate this goddamned _whisk_, and I _hate that I'm so goddamned USELESS!" _

By the time Ciel had reached 'I hate that I am dead', he was screaming, and with the word _useless, _he vaulted from the counter, passed straight through both the cook's assistants – who jumped and shrieked in shock – snatched the china mixing bowl from the hands of the cook and hurled it to the floor at her feet… where it _smashed, _with a crash that could have awakened the whole house.

"Saints alive!" screamed the terrified cook, "If that bowl didn't fly from my very hands!"

All the polished silver was gleaming in its open drawer, where Sebastian had neatly laid them not a minute ago. Ciel ran to it, _wrenched_ the drawer from its opening with an almighty tug and threw it with all his might against the wall. The silver crashed deafeningly to the tiled floor. The servants screamed and clung to each other; the maid and the cook floundered in perilous disarray, and Sebastian stood still and watched Ciel, as he flung open cabinets and knocked piles of plates to the floor or sent them crashing into the sink, overturned knife-holders so that the knives were thrown every which way, grabbed glasses, sugar bowls, gravy boats, fragile salt-and-pepper shakers, and smashed them all to pieces on the floor and walls.

When he finally stopped, breathless, his rage spent, the cook was sobbing, her assistants were frantically reciting the Hail Mary, and the old maid was gasping in fear and crossing herself, her lips moving in silent prayer. Sebastian stood, unmoving and silent, and stared at Ciel. Ciel met his eyes for just a moment. Then he turned and began to search through the rubble and jungle of broken glass and china, looking for something. He found it.

Slowly, the fingers of his transparent hand closed around the handle of the whisk. He picked it up and held it, bewildered and triumphant, and it did not fall.

Sebastian's eyes were hooded and wary.

_Well. _Glory to the newborn king, by all means.


End file.
